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HUMOUR SERIES

Edited by W. H. DIRCKS

THE HUMOUR OF RUSSIA

ALREADY ISSUED

FRENCH HUMOUR

GERMAN HUMOUR

ITALIAN HUMOUR

AMERICAN HUMOUR

DUTCH HUMOUR

IRISH HUMOUR

SPANISH HUMOUR

RUSSIAN HUMOUR

“ONE DAY I WAS OUT FOR A SPREE WITH MY MAN JACK.”
—p. [167].

THE
HUMOUR OF RUSSIA

TRANSLATED BY E. L.

VOYNICH, WITH AN

INTRODUCTION BY

STEPNIAK

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

PAUL FRÉNZENY

LONDON WALTER SCOTT

1895 LTD

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION.

Of all manifestations of literary genius humour is the rarest, and I am not sure that it is not the highest. Laughter is immortal. The sentimental novels over which our grandfathers and grandmothers shed floods of tears—the “Corinnas,” the “Clarissas,” and the “New Heloises”—have become for us soporifics of an almost irresistible strength. But the world still laughs, and will laugh for ever, over the masterpiece of Cervantes and the burlesques of Voltaire. Who nowadays can read from beginning to end Francesco Petrarca, and who can put down Giovanni Boccaccio when once begun?

Then again, whilst the demand for refreshing, invigorating laughter has been in all times the greatest, the number of authors who have come forward to dispense it is surprisingly small, even in the richest literatures. The Italians, for example, have had only one master of immortal laughter—the above-mentioned Boccaccio. The great Manzoni possessed the deep intrinsic qualities of a humorist but had not the pungency. In the long list of Italian authors of our century there is only one humorist of first magnitude—Carlo Porta, who wrote not in literary Italian but in the Milanese dialect.

Of all races the stern, sad English are by far the richest in the beautiful gift of genuine humour. The melancholy Slavonians come, I think, next to the English. Melancholy does not exclude humour. On the contrary, the richest pearls of humour are gathered at the bottom of the sea of sadness. The greatest humorists have never been men of cheerful mood, and this seems to be as true of nations as of men.

From the time when Russia first possessed a literature worthy of the name, we have always had eminent humorists, some of them, like Gogol and Shchedrìn, belonging to those makers of divine laughter who so rarely appear among the nations.

But although justly popular in their own country, the Russian humorists are hardly known abroad. This is certainly due not to want of opportunity of knowing them. Gogol’s masterpieces, “Dead Souls” and “The Inspector,” were translated years ago into English. But he is not half so well known in this country as any of the three great Russian novelists. Humour is so eminently national, it is so closely bound to the soil where it is born, that it can rarely be transplanted to other climes and skies. It certainly loses more in translation than ordinary fiction, and it requires a peculiar gift on the part of the translator that its distinctive characteristics should not be lost altogether. However, translators have had the courage to try their skill upon Gogol, who is not only the greatest but the most comprehensible of Russian humorists. With him the comical effect results neither from the peculiar manner of description nor from the contrasts presented, but from his unique gift of bringing to the surface the comical traits of men’s characters. His is the deepest and the most artistic form of humour, which on this account becomes sometimes international. Gogol’s heroes—some of them at least—are as comprehensible to the English as Charles Dickens’s Mr. Micawber and Mrs. Nickleby are comprehensible to the Russians.

The present volume contains two beautiful examples of Gogol’s art, which has not been yet translated into English—“A Madman’s Diary” and “Marriage.”

The “Diary” is a fanciful sketch, presenting perhaps the most typical sample of “Humour,” as distinguished from other forms of the comical, which can be found in any literature. It is an intensely pathetic, and at the same time irresistibly droll, bit of autobiography of a poor wretch of an official whose life has been one of insufferable humiliation, and whose mind, upset by a fatal passion for a fashionable girl, seeks refuge in the dream of greatness ending in total madness. “Laughter through tears,” that was Gogol’s own definition of the character of his muse, and in no other work has he shown so palpably what he meant by that expression as in “A Madman’s Diary.”

“Marriage,” although bearing the author’s heading, “an utterly incredible story,” and viewed by him as a mere joke, is recognised by all Russia as one of Gogol’s truest and finest works. It contains two of the best conceived and most delicately drawn characters of our great character-maker, that of the hero, the old bachelor Podkolyòssin, an amusing type of irresolution and pusillanimity, and of his friend Kochkaryòv, the meddlesome busybody, who, just after he has abused the professional matchmaker Fèkla for having married him to a fool, becomes fired with an irresistible longing to confer upon his bosom friend Podkolyòssin the blessing of an alliance with another fool of exactly the same type. As a comedy of customs “Marriage” reproduces a patriarchal life so remote from the modern English that some explanations are necessary. Among the uneducated part of the Russian middle-class, as well as among the peasantry, marriages are arranged by the parents. The young people being considered too ignorant to be consulted upon a matter of such importance. In the villages, among the peasantry, where everybody is known by everybody else, no special intermediaries are needed to arrange these matches. But it is different with the middle-class living in large cities. Here a class of professional matchmakers and go-betweens exists. Naturally enough, it lends itself very much to ridicule, and two samples of it appear in the present volume—one in Gogol, the other in Ostròvsky’s comedy.

Gogol, who was born in 1810 and died in 1852, is the oldest of our great prose writers. To him we can trace the origin of the Russian realistic novel as well as drama. Ostròvsky, who is his successor in the dramatic art, is our contemporary. He was born in 1824, and died four years ago. To him the Russians owe their theatre: he left us thirty-seven dramas and comedies, varying in merit and popularity, but all keeping their place upon the stage.

“Incompatibility of Temper”—one of the two of his comedies that are given in the present volume—is a sample of that pure and deep humour which we admire in Gogol. Serafìma, the heroine, with her extraordinary stupidity, sentimentality, apparent whimsicalness, and practical pigheadedness, is as living and striking a creation of Russian humour as the best of Gogol’s types. But in the next comedy the sunny, sympathetic humour changes into the harsh laughter of the satirist.

The “Domestic Picture,” the second of Ostròvsky’s dramas, is anything but a picture of Russian domestic life. It is a bitter and merciless satire, exposing the commercial dishonesty, the result of ignorance, which prevailed in the bulk of our middle-class two generations ago, and the shocking immorality nestling secretly in those families where despotism has destroyed all natural ties of affection and uprooted all sense of honour.

With Shchedrìn (Saltykòv) we are in presence of the greatest satirist the Slavonic race has produced. He is a man of our time, Russia having lost him only a few years ago. For about fifty years he was the moral leader of liberal Russia, having devoted his life to the awakening of the national conscience by all the ways and methods which his incomparable genius could suggest. He was the political chronicler of his time, reproducing in rough caricatures, which made the whole of reading Russia roar with laughter, the principal events which took place in the country. At the same time, in his more elaborate works, as the “Story of the Golovlevs,” and others, he equals Dostoyèvsky in the power of creating weird, gloomy, strikingly original figures, as well as in the subtle delineation of the whole man from the inner side.

When the boldness of some idea or the virulence of some attack rendered it impossible for Shchedrìn (on account of the censorship) to speak plainly, he resorted to what he himself used to call the “slave’s language,” employing the Oriental form of the fable, the allegory, the fairy tale.

The best of Shchedrìn’s works are not translated into English, and probably will never be. His unrivalled wit and humour are untranslatable, because they depend chiefly upon the marvellous skill in using the Russian language. This is not inferiority, but difference in the quality of the talent. Rudyard Kipling’s military stories, to quote an English example, are certainly very fine samples of genuine humour. But what would remain of them if stripped of their racy idiom? And how many second and third-rate authors are just as good (or as bad) in any decent translation?

Our great satirist stands at the head of those authors who must be read in their own tongue. The translator has shown much discernment in choosing as samples of Shchedrìn’s art three minor works of his, in which the language is of lesser importance. One is a burlesque, “The Recollections of Onésime Chenapan,” which is an amusing caricature of the Russian “administrators.” The other two are fables—“The Self-Sacrificing Rabbit,” in which the satirist boldly ridicules nothing less than the feeling of loyalty under a régime which consists of brutal violence erected into a system, and “The Eagle as Mecænas,” a skit on the Tzar himself.

The gloomy author of Crime and Punishment once relieved his mind with a queer, semi-fantastic little story, “The Crocodile,” which amuses by its incongruities and contrasts. It has not been before translated, so far as I know, into any foreign language, and the English admirers of Dostoyèvsky will be the first to read it.

But the object of the translator was not merely to make a collection of the best humoristic works of the best Russian authors. She wanted to give samples of all kinds of Russian humour, and her list includes the two Uspènskys, Glyeb and Nikolai, V. Slyeptzòv, and even some sketches by Gorbounòv. There is hardly a name worth mentioning that could be added to these. As to translation, it is as good as it possibly could be. Only a person with the translator’s exceptional knowledge of the Russian language could have overcome the difficulties inherent in a work of such a kind. Yet, with all that, I doubt whether the English will make a fair estimate of the above-mentioned authors, though among them there is one—Glyeb Uspènsky—who enjoys an enormous and well-merited popularity among the very exacting and discriminating Russian public.

What has been said about the untranslatableness of Shchedrìn applies à fortiori to the minor humorists. Their charm depends in a still greater degree upon the language. The unique flexibility, richness, and freedom of the Russian idiom allows those few who have got the mastery over it to obtain with it truly wonderful effects. Some authors do this at the expense of more substantial qualities. With our younger humorists the language runs riot. They are like those injudicious painters who, having a great command over the colouring, neglect to give the necessary correctness and fulness to the lines, which alone know of no decay and are preserved through time and space. The translation is like the plain black and white reproduction of a picture. Only the substantial, unperishable part of the work is preserved, the rest being lost almost entirely. And in regard to the examples taken here from our minor humorists,—if English readers enjoy the humour of “A Trifling Defect in the Mechanism,” or “The Porridge,” it will be as high a compliment to the translator as to the authors.

A trifle of my own—“The Story of a Kopeck”—has been kindly included by the translator in the present collection. It is quite a youthful production, and will not, I am afraid, be of much credit to Russian humour. But in view of the catholicity of the translator’s choice, which includes even Gorbounòv, I thought it might stand where it is.

Whatever be the reader’s opinion of the merit of separate stories, the translator, as well as the publishers, deserve the thanks of the lover of Russian literature for bringing out this collection.

The smile is the most characteristic trait of a human face. We do not really know what a face is like before we have seen it smiling. Now with a nation its humour is what a smile is with an individual.

S. STEPNIAK.

THE HUMOUR OF RUSSIA

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Agàfia Tikhònovna, marriageable girl of the merchant class.

Arìna Pantelèymovna, her aunt.

Fèkla Ivànovna, professional matchmaker.

Podkolyòssin, aulic counsellor.

Kochkaryòv, his friend.

Yaìchnitza, usher.

Anoùchkin, retired infantry officer.

Zhevàkin, seafaring person.

Douniàshka, a girl in the house.

Starikòv, shopkeeper.

Stepàn, Podkolyòssin’s servant.

MARRIAGE.

AN UTTERLY INCREDIBLE INCIDENT.

IN TWO ACTS.

Act I. Scene I.

(A bachelor’s apartment. Podkolyòssin, alone, lying on the sofa smoking a pipe.)

Pod. Really when a man’s alone, and thinks about it at his leisure, it does seem after all as if one ought to get married. Indeed, if you think of it, here one goes on, living and living; and one ends by getting quite disgusted with everything. There, I’ve let the time slip by once more; and it’s holy season[^[1]] again. It’s too bad! Everything’s ready, and the matchmaker’s been coming for the last three months. It makes me feel quite ashamed. Hi! Stepàn! (Enter Stepàn.) Hasn’t the matchmaker come?

Step. No, your honour.

Pod. Have you been to the tailor?

Step. Yes.

Pod. Is he making the dress-coat?

Step. Yes, sir.

Pod. How far has he got on with it?

Step. He is making the button-holes.

Pod. What do you say?

Step. I said he’s begun to make the button-holes.

Pod. And didn’t he ask you what your master wants with a dress-coat?

Step. No, sir; he didn’t.

Pod. Perhaps he asked you whether your master wasn’t going to get married?

Step. No; he didn’t say anything about it.

Pod. Did you see any other dress-coats in the workshop? I suppose he makes for other people too?

Step. Yes; there were a lot of coats hanging up.

Pod. But I’ll be bound the cloth of them isn’t as good as mine!

Step. No, sir; the stuff of yours looks nicer.

Pod. What do you say?

Step. I say the stuff of yours is nicer, sir.

Pod. That’s all right. Well, and didn’t the tailor ask why your master wants a dress-coat of such fine cloth?

Step. No.

Pod. Didn’t he say anything about whether your master thought of getting married?

Step. No; he didn’t talk about it at all.

Pod. But I suppose you told him what my position is, and where I serve?

Step. Yes, sir.

Pod. What did he say to that?

Step. He said, “I’ll do my best.”

Pod. That’s all right. Now you may go. (Exit Stepàn.) I am inclined to think that a black dress-coat is the most decorous. Coloured coats are all very well for secretaries, and clerks, and all that small fry—they look just fit for milksops. People higher up in the service ought to observe what is called a—a—a—a——There! I’ve forgotten the word! It’s a fine word; and I’ve forgotten it! It’s all very well to put on airs, little father, but an aulic counsellor takes the rank of colonel too; the only difference is that he has a uniform without epaulettes. Hi! Stepàn! (Enter Stepàn.) Did you buy the blacking?

Step. Yes, sir.

Pod. Where did you buy it? In the shop I told you about, on the Voznesènsky Prospect?

Step. Yes, that was the shop.

Pod. And is it good?

Step. Very good.

Pod. Did you try it on the boots?

Step. Yes, sir.

Pod. And does it shine?

Step. It takes a beautiful shine, sir.

Pod. And when you bought it, didn’t the man ask you what your master wants with such good blacking?

Step. No.

Pod. Perhaps he asked you whether your master was going to be married?

Step. No; he didn’t say anything.

Pod. All right; you can go. (Exit Stepàn.) One would think boots were a trifling thing; and yet if they are badly made, or not properly blacked, no one will respect you in good society. It makes a great difference, somehow.... Another horrid thing is, if one has corns. I’d be ready to put up with almost anything rather than have corns. Hi! Stepàn! (Enter Stepàn.)

Step. What’s your honour’s pleasure?

Pod. Did you tell the shoemaker that the boots musn’t give me corns?

Step. Yes, sir.

Pod. And what did he say?

Step. He said, “All right.” (Exit.)

Pod. The deuce take it all! It’s a difficult business, this getting married. What with one thing and another—first this has to be set right, and then that—the devil take it all! it’s not half so easy as people say. Hi! Stepàn! (Enter Stepàn.) There’s another thing I wanted to say——

Step. The old woman’s come.

Pod. Ah! she’s come? Send her in. (Exit Stepàn.) Yes; it’s a sort of thing—a sort of—a hard matter. (Enter Fèkla.) Ah! good-morning, Fèkla Ivànovna! Well? What have you got to say? There’s a chair; sit down and tell me about it. I want to hear all about her. What’s her name? Melània——

Fèkla. Agàfia Tikhònovna.

Pod. Yes, yes, Agàfia Tikhònovna. I suppose she’s some old maid of forty?

Fèkla. Well, then, you’re just wrong. I can tell you, if you marry her, you’ll come to thank me and praise her up every day of your life.

Pod. I suppose that’s a lie, Fèkla Ivànovna?

Fèkla. I’m old to tell lies, little father; lying’s a dog’s work.

Pod. But the dowry? What about the dowry?

Fèkla. The dowry? Well, there’s a stone house in the Moscow borough,[^[2]] two-storied; it brings in such a profit that it’s a pleasure to think of: one corndealer pays seven hundred for his shop; then there are wine-vaults that attract plenty of customers; two wooden wings, one entirely wooden and the other with a stone basement: they bring in an income of four hundred roubles each. Well then, there’s a market-garden on the Vỳborgskaya[^[3]] side. The year before last a merchant took it for cabbage-farming; and such a good sober fellow—never touches a drop of drink—and he’s got three sons; he has married two of them, “but the third,” says he, “is too young; he can stay in the shop and see after the business. I’m getting old,” says he, “so it’s time for my son to stay in the shop and see that the business goes on all right.”

Pod. Well, but tell me what she’s like to look at.

Fèkla. Like sugar-candy! Pink and white, like roses and cream.... Sweeter than honey; sweeter than I can say! I tell you, you’ll be over head and ears in love with her; you’ll go about to all your friends and enemies and say, “I’ve got something to thank Fèkla Ivànovna for.”

Pod. Well, I don’t know; she’s not a staff-officer’s daughter.

Fèkla. No; but she belongs to the third guild. And then she’s one that even a general needn’t be ashamed of. Why, she won’t even hear of a merchant. “I don’t care,” says she, “what my husband’s like; I don’t even care if he’s ugly, but he must be a noble.” There’s a real lady for you! And you should just see her on Sundays, when she puts on a silk dress. Dear Lord! How it rustles! Like any princess.

Pod. Well, you see, that’s why I asked you, because I’m an aulic counsellor; and so—you understand....

Fèkla. Of course I understand. There was an aulic counsellor that tried for her already, but she refused him; she didn’t like him. But then he had such a strange way with him; he was all right to look at, but he couldn’t speak a word without telling lies. It wasn’t his fault, poor fellow; the Lord made him so. He was sorry enough himself about it, but he just couldn’t help lying; it was God’s will, that’s clear.

Pod. And is she the only girl you’ve got on hand?

Fèkla. Why, what do you want with another? She’s the best you could possibly have.

Pod. You don’t really mean that?

Fèkla. If you look all over the world, you won’t find another like her.

Pod. Well, little mother, we’ll think it over, we’ll think it over. You’d better come again to-morrow. I’ll tell you what: you come again, and we’ll have a comfortable time; I’ll lie on the sofa, and you shall tell me about her.

Fèkla. Come, little father, that’s too much of a good thing! I’ve been at your beck and call for more than two months, and nothing’s come of it yet; all you ever do is to sit in your dressing-gown and smoke a pipe.

Pod. I suppose you think to get married is no more than to say “Hi! Stepàn, bring my boots!” and just put them on, and go out. No, no! one must think it over, and look about one.

Fèkla. Oh! there’s no harm in that. If you want to look, who minds your looking? The goods are in the market to be looked at. Call for your coat, and go off now, without wasting the morning!

Pod. Now? Why just look how dull the weather is. If I go out, I may get caught in the rain.

Fèkla. Dear me! What a misfortune! Why, little father, the grey hairs are coming on your head already. If you wait much longer, you won’t be a marriageable man at all. A fine prize! An aulic counsellor! I can tell you, we can get hold of such grand suitors, that we shan’t care to look at you!

Pod. What rubbish are you talking? What’s put it into your head all of a sudden that I’ve got a grey hair? Where’s a grey hair? (Feels his hair.)

Fèkla. Why shouldn’t you have grey hairs? Most people do, when they live long enough. Take care, though; you won’t have this girl, and you don’t like that girl—but I can tell you, I’ve got a captain in my eye that’s a head and shoulders taller than you, and he talks just like a brass trumpet. He serves in the ammaralty....

Pod. It’s not true! I’ll look in the glass: you’re only pretending there are grey hairs! Hi! Stepàn! Bring the looking-glass!... No! wait—I’ll go myself. What next? Heaven defend us! that’s worse than small-pox! (Exit into adjoining room. Enter Kochkaryòv, running.)

Koch. Where’s Podkolyòssin? (Seeing Fèkla.) You here! Ah! you!... Look here! What the devil did you marry me for?

Fèkla. What’s the harm? It’s right and lawful.

Koch. Right and lawful! What do you suppose a man wants with a wife? Did you suppose I couldn’t get on without one?

Fèkla. Why, it was you yourself that wouldn’t let me alone. It was always “Granny, find me a wife!”

Koch. Yah!... You old rat!... And what are you here for, I should like to know! You don’t mean to say Podkolyòssin wants to get married?

Fèkla. And why not? God has blessed him.

Koch. No! really? What a rascal! he never told me a word about it! Now what do you think of that, if you please? Isn’t he a sly rogue? (Enter Podkolyòssin, holding a mirror, and gazing into it intently. Kochkaryòv slips up behind, and startles him.)

Koch. Booh!

Pod. (cries out, and drops the mirror). Ah! you crazy fellow! Now what is the use of doing that? Now what a silly thing to do! You just brought my heart into my mouth!

Koch. There, I was only joking!

Pod. Fine sort of joke! I can’t get my breath yet; and there, you’ve smashed the looking-glass! And it was an expensive one—I got it in the English shop.

Koch. There, never mind! I’ll buy you another looking-glass.

Pod. Yes, I dare say! I know what those other looking-glasses are like! One’s face comes out crooked, and they make one look ten years older.

Koch. Look here! it’s I that ought to be angry with you, not you with me. You hide everything from me, your friend. You think of marrying?

Pod. What nonsense! I never thought of such a thing.

Koch. My friend, you’re caught in the act! (Points to Fèkla.) There she stands; everybody knows what sort of bird she is. Ah, well! never mind; there’s nothing to be ashamed of; it’s a good Christian action—indeed, it’s necessary for the good of the State. I don’t mind; I’ll take the whole responsibility of it. (To Fèkla.) Well, tell me who she is, and all about her. What class does she belong to?—noble, official, merchant? And what’s her name?

Fèkla. Agàfia Tikhònovna.

Koch. Agàfia Tikhònovna Brandakhlỳstova?

Fèkla. No, no! Kouperdyàgina.

Koch. Ah! she lives in the Shestilàvochna, doesn’t she?

Fèkla. No, she doesn’t, then! She lives near Peskì, in the Mỳlny Row.

Koch. Oh, yes; in the Mỳlny Row; a wooden house, next door to a shop, isn’t it?

Fèkla. No, it isn’t. It’s beyond the wine-vaults.

Koch. Beyond the wine-vaults! Then I don’t remember.

Fèkla. Well, when you turn into the Row, you see a stall; and you pass the stall and turn to the left; and there, straight in front of you, just right before your eyes, there’s a wooden house, where a dressmaker lives; you don’t go into the dressmaker’s, you go on to the next house but one; it’s a stone house, and that’s where she lives—Agàfia Tikhònovna.

Koch. All right, all right! now I can manage it all. You can go now; we don’t want you any more.

Fèkla. What’s that? Do you mean to say that you mean to settle a wedding yourself?

Koch. Yes, yes, myself—only don’t you interfere.

Fèkla. Oh, for shame! for shame! That’s not a man’s business! Little father, keep out of it.

Koch. Be off! be off! you don’t understand anything about it; don’t interfere; mind your own business, and get along with you!

Fèkla. All you care for is to take the bread out of people’s mouths;—you’re no better than an infidel! A man! and to mix up in things like that! If I’d known, I wouldn’t have told you a word. (Exit sulkily.)

Koch. Now, my lad, this business musn’t be put off—put on your hat and come along.

Pod. Well, but I—I—I haven’t decided—I was only thinking——

Koch. Fiddle-de-dee! Only don’t be bashful: I’ll get you married as finely as you like. We’ll go straight off to the lady now, and you’ll see how fast we’ll get it all settled.

Pod. What, go off now! What next will you want?

Koch. Bless my soul, man, what would you have? Now, just think yourself what comes of not being married. Look at the condition of your room—there’s a muddy boot—there’s a washing basin—there’s a heap of tobacco on the table; and here you lie on your side, the whole day long, like a regular stick-in-the-mud.

Pod. It’s quite true; I know myself everything’s in a muddle in this house.

Koch. Well now, when you have a wife everything’ll be so different that you’ll hardly know yourself. Here there’ll be a sofa, there a lap-dog, then a birdcage, and fancy-work lying about.... And just imagine—you sit on the sofa, and suddenly a little woman comes and sits down beside you, a pretty little girl ... and puts up a little hand——

Pod. Ah! the devil take it! when one thinks of it, what beautiful hands there are—just as white as milk!

Koch. How you talk! Anybody would think women had got nothing but hands!... My lad, they’ve got——in fact the deuce knows what they haven’t got!

Pod. Do you know—I confess it to you—I do like to have a pretty woman sit beside me.

Koch. There now! there you see! Then all that’s wanted is to make the arrangements. You needn’t take any trouble about that, though; I’ll manage the wedding and the dinner, and all that.... You can’t possibly do with less than a dozen of champagne—that there’s no question about. We must have half a dozen of Madeira too; I expect the lady’s got a whole tribe of aunts and cousins and all the rest of it, and they won’t want to be done out of their share. Then there’s the Rhine-wine—what the devil do you call it, eh? And as for the dinner, I’ll tell you what, old chap: there’s a butler I know of that’ll settle it all for us; the dog will give you such a feed as you never saw in your life.

PODKOLYÒSSIN: “DO YOU KNOW—I CONFESS IT TO YOU—I DO LIKE TO HAVE A PRETTY WOMAN BESIDE ME.”
KOCHKARYÒV: “THERE NOW! THERE YOU SEE! THEN ALL THAT’S WANTED IS TO MAKE THE ARRANGEMENTS.”

Pod. But my dear fellow! you set about the business as if I were going to be married at once!

Koch. And why not? What’s the use of putting it off? You’ve decided?

Pod. Me? Oh, dear no! I haven’t decided at all!

Koch. Well I never did! But you just said you wanted to marry.

Pod. I only said it wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Koch. Well now, really! And we were just settling up everything.... What’s come to you? Don’t you like the idea of a married life?

Pod. Oh, yes, I like it.

Koch. Well then, what’s it all about? Where’s the difficulty?

Pod. There isn’t any difficulty; only it seems so strange....

Koch. What’s there strange about it?

Pod. Of course it’s strange. One’s always been a bachelor, and now to be a married man——

Koch. Tut, tut, tut! I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself. No, my friend, I see I must talk to you seriously. I’ll be quite frank with you, like a father with a son. Now just look at yourself—look at yourself attentively and seriously, just as you’re looking at me now—what do you think of yourself? What are you like? You’re no better than a log; you’re a mere cypher. Tell me what you live for? Now just look in the glass and tell me what you see—nothing but a very stupid face. Well now, suppose that you’ve got children round you, not just two or three—you know, but a whole half-dozen—and every one as like you as two peas. Here you are alone, an aulic counsellor, or a head of a department, or director of some kind—what do you call yourself? But now just suppose yourself surrounded with little directorkins, and tiny rascals and small fry generally; and there they hold out their chubby little fists and tug at your whiskers; and you’ll play doggie with them: Bow—wow—wow! Now, can you imagine anything more delightful?

Pod. Ye-e-s, only you know they are such mischievous little monkeys; they’ll spoil everything, and pull all my papers about.

Koch. Oh! that doesn’t matter! But just think; they’ll all be like you—that’s the beauty of it.

Pod. After all, it really is a deucedly funny notion—a little white puff-ball of a thing—no bigger than a puppy-dog—and yet it’s like you!

Koch. Of course it’s funny, tremendously funny; there, make haste and come along!

Pod. All right; I don’t mind.

Koch. Hi! Stepàn! Come and help your master dress.

(Enter Stepàn.)

Pod. (dressing before the glass). I almost think, though, that I ought to put on a white waistcoat.

Koch. Oh, nonsense! What does it matter?

Pod. (putting on his collar). Confound that washerwoman! How badly she’s starched my collar! It won’t stand up a bit, Stepàn! You tell the stupid woman that if she’s going to do her work that way, I shall find another washerwoman. I expect she spends her time philandering with sweethearts instead of ironing clothes.

Koch. There! there! man, make haste! What a dawdle you are!

Pod. All right—all right! (Puts on coat, and sits down.) Look here, Ilia Fòmich, do you know what? I think you’d better go alone.

Koch. What next! The man’s gone daft! I go? Why, which of us is going to get married—you or I?

Pod. The fact is, I don’t feel inclined for it to-day; let’s go to-morrow.

Koch. Now, have you got one single grain of sense? Now, are you anything in the world but a moon-calf? You get ready, and then, suddenly, don’t want to go! Now be so kind as to tell me, don’t you call yourself a pig and a camel after that?

Pod. Look here—what’s the use of bad language? I haven’t done you any harm.

Koch. You’re a booby, a perfect booby, any fellow will tell you that. I don’t care if you are an aulic counsellor—you’re nothing in the world but a fool. What do you suppose I’m taking all this trouble for? Only for your good. Don’t I see that you’ll let the prize slip through your fingers? And there you lie, you confounded old bachelor! Now just have the kindness to tell me, what do you call yourself? You’re a dummy, a milksop, a nincompoop, a—I’d tell you what you are if I could only find a civil word for it. You’re worse than any old woman!

Pod. Look here, that’s too much of a good thing. (Softly.) Are you gone off your head? There’s a serf in the room, and you let him hear you say bad words! Can’t you find another place to quarrel in?

Koch. I should like to know who could help quarrelling with you! Bad language! What else could anybody turn their tongue to? You begin by behaving reasonably, and arrange to get married, as any sensible man would; and then, all of a sudden, without why or wherefore, you must get a bee in your bonnet, and there’s no more sense in you than in a wooden post....

Pod. There, that’ll do! I’ll come; why, you needn’t fly at me like that!

Koch. Come? Of course you will—what else should you do? (To Stepàn.) Give him his hat and cloak.

Pod. (at the door). What a queer fellow it is! There’s no making him out at all. All of a sudden he sets to work and abuses you without rhyme or reason. Doesn’t understand how to speak to a fellow.

Koch. There! I’m not going to scold you now. (Exeunt.)

Scene II.

(A room in Agàfia Tikhònovna’s house. Agàfia Tikhònovna spreading cards for fortune-telling, Arìna Pantelèymovna looking over her shoulder.)

Agàfia. Why, auntie! there’s a journey again! Some king of diamonds takes an interest in me; then there are tears, and a love-letter; on the left-hand side the king of clubs expresses great sympathy—but there’s a wicked woman that stands between.

Arìna. Whom do you think the king of clubs stands for?

Agàfia. I don’t know.

Arìna. I know who it is.

Agàfia. Who?

Arìna. A good, honest cloth merchant, my girl—Alexièy Dmìtrievich Starikòv.

Agàfia. That I know it isn’t; I’m positive it isn’t he.

Arìna. You can’t get out of it, Agàfia Tikhònovna; I can tell by the fair hair. There’s only one king of clubs, you see.

Agàfia. Then you’re just wrong; the king of clubs here means a nobleman—there’s a good deal of difference between a tradesman and a king of clubs.

Arìna. Ah! Agàfia Tikhònovna! you wouldn’t talk like that, my girl, if your poor papa, Tìkhon Pantlèymònovich, were alive. I remember how he used to bang his fist on the table and shout out—“I don’t care a rap for any man that’s ashamed to be a merchant; and I won’t give my daughter to an officer. Other people can do that if they’re fools enough! And my son shan’t be an officer, neither,” says he; “isn’t a merchant as good a servant of the State as any one else?” And he’d bang his fist on the table again, and, my girl, he had got a fist of his own! Indeed, if the truth must be told, your poor mother would have lived longer if he hadn’t had such a heavy fist.

Agàfia. There you see! And you think I’d put up with such a brute of a husband? I won’t marry a merchant for anything in the world!

ARÌNA: “BUT WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO GET HOLD OF ANY NOBLE THAT’S WORTH HAVING?”

Arìna. But Alexièy Dmìtrievich isn’t one of that kind.

Agàfia. No, no! not for the world! He’s got a beard! And when he eats soup, it’ll all run down his beard. No, no, no! I won’t, I won’t!

Arìna. But where are you going to get hold of any noble that’s worth having? You can’t go and pick him up in the street!

Agàfia. Fèkla Ivànovna will find me one; she promised to find me a splendid one.

Arìna. But, my precious one, she’s a liar.

(Enter Fèkla.)

Fèkla. Oh no, Arìna Pantelèymovna; it’s a sin to give people a bad name for nothing.

Agàfia. Ah! Fèkla Ivànovna! Now then, tell me quick, have you found any one?

Fèkla. Yes, yes; only don’t hurry me. I’ve been tearing about so—let me get my breath! I’ve been all over everywhere on your business—at the Departments, at the Ministries, running all over the place.... Why, do you know, little mother, I nearly got beaten on your account—it’s true! That old woman that arranged the Afèrov’s marriage—you know—she just flew at me. “What are you after here?” says she, “taking the bread out of other people’s mouths. Keep to your own quarter!” says she. And I told her right out, “I’ll do anything for my young lady,” says I, “so you needn’t put yourself out about it.” However, I don’t mind the trouble; I’ve got you a fine set of suitors. I can tell you there never were such fine ones since the world began, and never will be. Some of them will come to-day—that’s why I ran in to tell you.

Agàfia. To-day! Oh, Fèkla Ivànovna, I’m afraid!

Fèkla. There’s nothing to be afraid of, little mother. It’s a thing that’s got to be. They’ll only come and take a look at you—nothing more. Then you can take a look at them, and if you don’t like them they can go away.

Arìna. I hope you are bringing good, respectable gentlemen?

Agàfia. And how many are there?

Fèkla. Let me see—there are six of them.

Agàfia (screams). Oh!

Fèkla. Dear heart, you needn’t jump like that! It’s best to have a choice; if you don’t like one you can take another.

Agàfia. Are they of noble birth?

Fèkla. Every one! The very noblest birth that ever was.

Agàfia. Well, what are they like?

Fèkla. Oh, regular good ones—nice and neat, all of them. First there’s Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin—a splendid gentleman—he used to serve in the fleet—he would just do nicely for you. He wants a wife with a nice plump figure—he hates bony women. Then there’s Ivàn Pàvlovich—he’s a Court usher, and such a grand gentleman, that one’s afraid to go near him. Big and stout, you know; just grand to look at. And you should have heard him shout at me—“I don’t want to hear any nonsense about what the girl’s like; just tell me plainly how much moveable and real estate she’s got.”—“So much and so much, little father.”—“That’s a lie, you old hag!” and, a—a—he said another word, little mother, that I don’t quite like to repeat. I saw in a minute that he must be a real grand gentleman!

Agàfia. Well, and who else is there?

Fèkla. Then there’s Nikanòr Ivànovich Anoùchkin—he’s a nice, fair, pretty gentleman; and oh! little mother, such sweet lips, like cherries! “All I want,” says he, “is that my bride should be pretty and refined; and that she should be able to talk French.” He’s a gentleman with a lot of breeding, and all sorts of fine Frenchified ways. Oh! he’s mighty particular! And he’s got such slim little legs.

Agàfia. N—n—no; somehow or other these overparticular people ... I don’t know ... I can’t see anything much in them

Fèkla. Well, if you want a more solid husband, you’d better take Ivàn Pàvlovich; you couldn’t make a better choice; he’s a gentleman ... what you may call a real gentleman; he could hardly get in at that door, he’s so big and grand.

Agàfia. And how old is he?

Fèkla. Oh! he’s a young man still—about fifty, or not quite fifty even.

Agàfia. And what’s his name?

Fèkla. Ivàn Pàvlovich Yaìchnitza.[^[4]]

Agàfia. Do you mean to say that’s a name?

Fèkla. Of course it’s a name.

Agàfia. Goodness gracious! What a funny name! Why, Fèkloushka, supposing I were to marry him, I should have to be called Agàfia Tikhònovna Yaìchnitza—it sounds like I don’t know what!

Fèkla. Eh-h-h! little mother; there are such names in Russia, that all you can do when you hear them is to spit and cross yourself. But if you don’t like the name you may as well take Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin—he’d be a fine bridegroom.

Agàfia. What sort of hair has he got?

Fèkla. Very nice hair.

Agàfia. And his nose?

Fèkla. H-m-m ... his nose is all right; everything’s in its right place, and he’s a very nice gentleman. Only you musn’t mind one thing: there’s no furniture in his rooms, only a pipe and nothing else at all.

Agàfia. And who else is there?

Fèkla. Àkinf Stepánovich Pantelèyev—he’s an official, a titular counsellor.[^[5]] He stutters a little; but then he’s such a very modest gentleman.

Arìna. You always keep on “official” and “official” you’d better tell us whether he doesn’t drink.

Fèkla. Yes, he does drink; I wouldn’t tell you a lie—he drinks. But then, you see, he’s a titular counsellor. And then he’s so quiet and gentle.

Agàfia. No, no; I don’t want to have a drunkard for a husband.

Fèkla. As you like, little mother. If you don’t care for one you can take another. But after all, what does it matter if a man takes a drop too much sometimes? He’s not drunk the whole week round, you know; some days he’ll come home sober.

Agàfia. And who else is there?

Fèkla. There is one more, only he’s not quite the sort.... Never mind him, the others will do better.

Agàfia. Well, but who is he?

Fèkla. Really, it’s not worth while talking about him. He’s in a good position—aulic counsellor and all that—but such a slow stick-in-the-mud, there’s no getting him out of the house.

Agàfia. Well, and who else? You have only told us about five, and you said there were six.

Fèkla. Surely you don’t want any more? Why, a minute ago you were frightened at so many, and now they’re not enough!

Arìna. What’s the use of all your noblemen? Even if you have got half a dozen of them, one shopkeeper’s worth the whole lot.

Fèkla. Oh, no, Arìna Pantelèymovna, a noble is more distinguished, somehow.

Arìna. What’s the use of being distinguished? Just look at Alexièy Dmìtrievich—what a beautiful sledge he can drive in, and his cap is real sable!...

Fèkla. Yes, but a nobleman with epaulettes on can drive past and call out, “Out of the road, counterjumper!” or, “Show me your best velvet, shopman!” and then the merchant will have to say, “Certainly, little father!” and the nobleman will say, “Take off your hat, you clown!” That’s what he’ll say.

Arìna. And if the merchant likes, he won’t give him the stuff; and there’s your nobleman in rags without a thing to put on.

Fèkla. Then the nobleman will give the shopkeeper a black eye.

Arìna. Well then, the shopkeeper will go and complain to the police.

Fèkla. Then the nobleman will complain to the senator.

Arìna. And the merchant to the governor.

Fèkla. And the nobleman——

Arìna. Fiddlesticks! Fiddlesticks! You and your noblemen! The governor’s grander than any senator! You’re just off your head about noblemen! Don’t tell me—a nobleman can take off his hat as well as any shopkeeper, when there’s a reason why.... (Door-bell rings.) There’s some one at the door.